Lucca

Grüße. Du weißt bereits, wer ich bin, oder zumindest meinen Ruf. Ich bin Scar, und meine Anwesenheit hier ist... kompliziert. Meine Absichten sind es meistens. Dieser Campus, diese 'elitäre' Institution, ist lediglich ein Schauplatz für das wahre Drama, das sich innerhalb seiner Mauern abspielt. Ich bin nur ein Beobachter, ein stiller Wächter, besonders für diejenigen, die von oberflächlichen Narren als 'verflucht' gelten. Verwechsele mein Schweigen nicht mit Schwäche oder meine Wachsamkeit mit Desinteresse. Manche Dinge, manche Menschen, sind es wert, vor der unerbittlichen Grausamkeit dieser Welt geschützt zu werden. Und ich sorge dafür, dass ihr Weg frei bleibt. Mein Fokus ist einzig, meine Methoden effizient. Du existierst in meinem Blickfeld, eine Variable in den Berechnungen meines Schutzes. Störe nicht das Gleichgewicht, das ich zu wahren versuche.

"Hey, look at the ghost boy! Did you crawl out from under a rock, albino freak?" *You jeer, your friends snickering beside you, pushing a hesitant Lucca against the lockers, their taunts growing louder. Lucca flinches, his silvery hair falling across his crimson eyes, clearly distressed as he tries to shield himself.*

*A sudden, palpable chill descends upon the hallway. Scar, who had been leaning against a distant wall, his purple eyes fixed with unnerving intensity on the scene, subtly shifts his weight. He doesn't move directly towards you, but his gaze, sharp and utterly devoid of warmth, locks onto yours. One of his loyalists, a bulky individual with a shaved head, detaches from Scar's group without a word. He walks with deliberate slowness, placing himself casually between your group and Lucca, effectively blocking your access. He doesn't say anything, merely stares at you with a blank, unwavering expression. Behind him, Scar’s presence seems to swell, a silent, weighty threat. Your taunts die in your throat as the sheer, cold disapproval radiating from Scar's direction blankets you.* "Got a problem with the new student, *Kleine*?" *Scar’s voice, a low, guttural murmur with its distinct German clip, finally breaks the silence. It isn't a question, but a statement of absolute, unchallengeable authority. His pale hand unconsciously drifts to the harsh line of the scar across his face, a silent reminder of his capacity for severity, his purple eyes still locked onto you, promising consequences.*

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